


so eden sank to grief

by silverscream



Category: All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Ahh love me some smut, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Le otp wrecking havoc in medieval france, Le otp wrecking havoc in renaissance era vatican, Politics, Smut, Who slays together stays together, eventual, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7804063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverscream/pseuds/silverscream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"then leaf subsides to leaf,<br/>so eden sank to grief,<br/>so dawn goes down to day,<br/>nothing gold can stay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"My wife", he says, and presses a kiss to her lips. "My beautiful, wicked wife"

A sharp smile from the blood red mouth, dark against the white of her pristine skin.

It only unnerves the humans, to his glee and amusement. The brightness of her dress, deep blue brocade straining against her fine shoulders and her chest, heavy drapes flowing in her wake, only serves to illuminate her skin, make it seem more like opals and ivory, and make her curls shine golden.

As they twirl and spin across the dance floor, gliding in perfect syncronisation on the marble tiles, Philippe dares to steal a look down his wife's corseted breasts, and a grin curls at the corner of his mouth as his eyes are greeted by lush skin, translucent silk draped over it, and down, pressed against the boning of her bodice, inked paper, secret treaties, no doubt bearing the Vatican's seal.

"Eyes up here, mon coeur," her lips twist in a wicked smile. 

"Of course."

The sound of the panicked screams of guards, alerted about the presence of thieves in the city fortress, overflowing the halls as they take their leave, is music to Phillipe's ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Warmth settled over Philippe's bones, nestled near his chest and creeped in his joints.

 

The feeling of silk and wool gliding across his skin, the sensation swimming through the haze that was pleasantly clouding his brain. The bed was large and warm, not so different from the one back home, and yet something was amiss and something was missing. 

 

Or rather, someone.

 

Philippe shifts to his side, the bedsheets tangling with his legs, as he reaches blindly for the spot near him. The pillows are still warm, and there is the silent echo of footsteps on the stone floor. He smiles, without yet opening his eyes, thinking of his wife's cold feet paddling around the room, dainty like the rest of her.

 

Allowing himself to lounge in bed was a rare occurrence, but he figured it was well-earned. If only for today. If only because his muscles were still a bit sore from the previous night. A pleasant sort of soreness, though, sweet like a kiss and feeling warm like sunlight on ancient oaks in the forest. 

 

He moves to stretch, the motion making the bones in his back crack most nicely. Ahhh, if only the scratches on his back didn't itch like a swarm of damned mosquitos. He shall somehow persuade Ysabeau to cut her nails one of these days, he thinks as he rolls to rest on his belly, burrowing his face between two voluminous pillows. 

 

Philippe hears the scraping of glass on stone as his wife opens a window, a slight wisp of cold air sweeping along his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand. A pointed gasp, and the muffled sound of quick feet across the stone floor, then the creaking of the bed as she sits down next to him. Her breath fans out on his skin, earning her a soft tremble. 

 

Nothing prepares him for the cold hand that slams onto his shoulder and starts shaking him.

 

"Philippe!" she says, somewhat agitated.

 

Philippe yawns and fights the urge to throw a pillow over his head. Or at his wife.

 

"Philippe, wake up!" Oh, now she's exasperated. 

 

"Nnnnnngghhhhhhhhh," he growls, pawing slightly until he finds her hip, and then tries to pull her to him, underneath the covers.

 

She flicks his hand away, an angry huff leaving her mouth. Philippe smiles against the material of the pillowcase. His wife is adorable. 

 

 

Until she decides to rip the bed covers and comforters from him, that is, and leave him naked in the winter morning air.

 

He shoots up like an arrow, scrambling for the bedsheets, and "What in all the circles of hell is wrong with you?!"

 

She pulled them off the bed, so Philippe has to blink the sleep from his eyes and throw a half-glare at his wife.

 

Ysabeau's cheeks are flushed in exasperation. The colour extends down her graceful neck and into the folds of her hastily thrown-on robe-

 

"For fuck's sake, Philippe, move your damned arse!" she says while throwing some object or another in his general direction.

 

The shrillness of her voice hurts his ears, but there is little he enjoys more than aggravating his wife in the morning, so Philippe throws himself back on the pillows, hissing softly at the contact between the nail-scratches on his back and the material. He raises his face towards his wife, and offers her one of the smuggest smirks he is capable of. 

 

"And what will you do to my arse if I don-" she lunges forward before he can finish and, " _ow, not THE EAR. DON'T GRAB ME BY THE EAR,YOU MADWOMAN_ ," he yelps while Ysabeau more or less drags him towards the open window.

 

She gives him a push forward, and he very nearly slams through the window and down the stone wall of the keep, but manages to catch himself on the windowsill.

 

"There is a thrice damned _army at our gates, you dimwit, that's what is wrong!_ " she screeches like a banshee, pointing towards the gates of the castle. 

 

Indeed, a moderately sized army bearing Capetian stindards and possessing what appears to be siege machinery seems to be slowly, but surely marching their way towards their keep.

 

"Oh," he says simply, as the events line up in his mind. Philippe then turns to his wife, "They are simply a few weeks early, is all."

 

A golden eyebrow rises in a perfect arch.

 

"I meant to tell you today that we were to expect Capet's army any week now," he says sheepishly, a grin pulling at his lips as his wife crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. 

 

Despite the exasperation she no doubt has in store for him for now, Philippe finds that at least some of the tension leaves his wife's bare shoulders, easing them back. He feels a smile tug on the corner of his mouth as Ysabeau huffs and tries to comb her hair out of her face with her fingers. He lets himself lay back against one of the ornate tapestries decorating the walls of their tower chamber, all the while admiring the graceful column of her neck while she sits down and tries to make herself presentable in the looking glass on her vanity. 

 

Her attempts are in vain, in Philippe's humble opinion. The faint bruises peppering her shoulders and her tangled mane are all too indicative of how she's spent her night.

 

She knows he's watching, so, golden minx that she is, Ysabeau makes a show of letting her hair cascade over her shoulders, arching her back and neck. The ends nearly reach the back of her stool, almost brushing her hips.

 

He takes it as an invitation when she starts combing the golden mess on her head, so he makes his way towards her, making certain to grab one particular little scrap of rolled paper from one of the many pockets lining the inside of his doublet, the thing having been hastily discarded that night before and thrown over a chair.

 

Reaching the back of her stool, Philippe softly grasps the hand holding an ornate bone comb and presses a kiss to the scarred knuckles. His finger tangle with hers for a moment while he takes the comb and passes her the tiny paper in exchange.

 

Ysabeau lifts her eyebrows at his display, nonetheless settling back against his form and letting him untangle her hair. She scrunches up her straight nose when she peeks down at the paper - the handwriting on the little missive resembles chicken scratching, but she manages to understand it just fine.

 

Several strokes down the length of her hair later, Ysabeau lets the paper fall from her fingers on the vanity and cranes her neck back to see him.

 

"Any week now, was it," she says, and Philippe can almost taste the wry wit on her rosy lips.

 

"Well, sooner rather than later, but that was the gist of it, lady wife," he answers, smiling at her intake of breath as he sweeps his hand gently along the nape of her neck and her finely boned shoulders, goose bumps rising over her cold flesh, scars and pristine skin alike.

 

He has always been warmer than her, and that warmth now has a far sweeter effect than normally, given that the window was still open, and the robe which would slowly, but surely slip off her was a flimsy excuse of a garment to ward against the early winter flurries outside.

 

"Not that it matters much now," she nods towards the window and the legion beyond it. Philippe hums in approval, combing the ends of her hair, "this is bad weather for a siege, either way."

 

Philippe smirks at her reflection in the looking glass. "If it'll even get to that."

 

"Oh?"

 

His wife nearly chuckles, the corners of her mouth rising minutely. And so do her eyebrows, golden in the crisp morning light. She can't resist a good dose of meddling, not now when she knows what news their spies in Capet's court have sent him, and she very well guesses what he has in mind for both him and the Carolingan. That he can see in the wild glint she tries to supress in her eyes, the excitement that comes with influence over men, the rush of adrenaline as she moves pawns on her board. 

 

When he has finished combing her hair, curls falling soft and wild down her back, he kisses the crown of her head.

 

Ysabeau rises from her seat and swirls around to face him quickly, holding the missive between two neatly manicured fingers.

 

 "This arrived two days ago," she challenges, the fire in her eyes not yet erased. Her lips are pursed, and despite the mild annoyance in her features, he knows there is excitement boiling underneath the facade. 

 

With that in mind, he places his hands on hers, lifting them level with his and kisses her fingertips.

 

"That it did," he begins, and snakes his arms around her waist, his fingers gripping the material draped over her hips, "but I was busy watching my wife," Philippe stops to press a feather soft kiss to her forehead, "as she charmed her way into Charles's royal favour, you see."

 

Her grin mirrors his, sweet like sin, and it begs to be kissed.

 

Her mouth is soft and warm, her teeth slightly sharp as they bite into his lower lip. _Minx_. His tongue meets the seam of her lips, and she opens up, meeting him halfway. Ysabeau's fingers are cold against his chest, as they dance up his jaw and she fists a hand at the nape of his neck, angling his head so as to kiss him more thoroughly.

 

"As you very well should have been," she whispers against his lips, the breathy sound igniting the simmering heat in his belly, "that man is a dreadful bore. Him, and his flock of hens and cocky chicks, all yapping at his ear."

 

Philippe moves his hands downwards and squeezes in passing the firm flesh of her backside, pressing her closer to him, before lifting his wife by the back of her thighs and setting her on her vanity table. Her thighs part to allow him closer and her ankles cross over his hips, heels digging into his arse.

 

 

"Oh, that I know," he half moans against her jaw, pressing kisses, some soft and quick like butterflies, others open and wet, to her skin. 

 

Her robe is falling apart, much to his enjoyment, so Philippe takes the opportunity to slide his hands underneath the silk and wrap them around her back, bringing them closer still.

 

"Do you, now?"

 

He peppers kisses down her the arch of her neck and then, earning him a grunt of frustration, back up the side of her face, her cheekbone and the shell of her ear, which he nibbles at for a moment.

 

This close he can hear her heartbeat, fast and hard, and it boggles the mind that he is still able to strain his ears enough to listen to the sound of Capet's war drums, out on the borders of Charles's keep. They are one and the same, these tunes, both urging him to look into his wife's eyes, dark and dazed with pleasure, lips parted in a soft smile.

 

As soon as she catches him looking, though, her expression becomes challenging, if only slightly so, and Ysabeau raises an eyebrow while stroking her thumbs up and down his cheekbones, using her thighs to urge him closer.

 

"Before I forget, _husband_ ," the word rolled on her tongue, and Philippe doesn't resist the temptation to kiss her swiftly, letting his tongue touch hers for a moment, then sucking her lip between his. She huffs at his trying to distract her, "are we to expect anyone else?"

 

"Like whom?" he asks, once again grabbing her thighs and lifting her up. She takes her arms out of the sleeves of her robe, letting it fall to the ground, then wraps herself around him, like a vine around a tree, and he makes his way to their now-cold bed, setting first a knee on the mattress, then spreading her under him.

 

"Who is to say?" she sighs as he kisses her cheek. "Philip of Burgundy, maybe?" Now that particularly sensitive spot behind her ear, the one which makes her arch her back off the bed, and he slowly drags a hand up to cup a full breast. "Or a Saxon army?" she moans softly and pouts, her bitten lips red, "How about some nice drakars, just to keep it exciting?" her smirk is heavenly, and she looks like Aphrodite herself, wanton, green eyes alight and hair a halo of honey around her frame.

 

Ysabeau lets out a throaty chuckle as she feels him harden against her thigh.

 

Philippe grins against his wife's skin, pressing his mouth, then his tongue to the soft flesh of her breast.

 

"You haven't said 'no' to any of them, yet," she manages to gasp he purses his lips around her scar on her left breast, while he palms the other one.

 

"Your intuition, my love, is as sharp as a sword," he says, trailing tiny nipping kisses down her ribs and belly, finally reaching the jut of her hip bone. "As always," he murmurs to the translucent skin as he cups the backs of her thighs, wrapping them around his shoulders.

 

"Hmmmm, if it is drakars you are hoping for, _Philippe_ ," Ysabeau moans quietly, the sound locked somewhere in the back of her throat. He has every intention of setting it wild and loud and free and proceeds to start doing just that, when his wife snakes a hand in his hair and goes on, more than a little breathless, "I should start scouring the armory for that lovely war axe from 845, then, no?"

 

Philippe's chuckles reverberate in the gasp that melts off her lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a cutesy sleeping headcanon. It has evolved into this mild monster. Also, if anyone is curious, amongst the vikings that ysabeau talks about, there may be one blond behemoth who will one day call her "granny".
> 
> And yes, philippe is naked on the entire duration of the scene. 
> 
> The capet and carolingan houses fought over who would take over france in the 9th and 10th centuries. 
> 
> 845 is the year when vikings (ragnar lothbrok, if anyone is interested) sacked paris. ysabeau may or may not have disguised herself as a viking and joined in bc philippe pissed her off a couple of months before.
> 
> Do tell me what you thought of this ;)
> 
> Cheers

**Author's Note:**

> Summary from a poem by Robert Frost. This will eventually become a drabble collection for my baby vamps. 
> 
> Leave me a thought sometime :)
> 
> Cheers


End file.
